Feed The Memory
by Hekate1308
Summary: He could feed John Watson, at least. Angelo, Post-Reichenbach.


**Author's note: I forgot Angelo. I wrote Post-Reichenbach stories for every character I could think of, and I forgot Angelo. How could this happen? Time to give him the credit he deserves. **

**I don't own anything, please review.**

He might not be as young and strong as he'd once been, but he'd learned a thing or two in jail, and throwing the reporter out of his restaurant didn't take much effort.

Really, he'd got used to it over the last few weeks. Ever since Sherlock had killed himself, ever since reporters had realized this was his favourite restaurants, they had shown up one after the other, demanding whether he'd known that Sherlock was a fraud, whether he and John had been more than friends and so on. Angelo hadn't answered a single question. There was no need too. He was certain they could figure out what he thought by the way he turned them out. Most of the time, he didn't even let them enter the restaurant. He'd learned how to recognize what people were after in his long and colourful career, and he knew they just wanted a new sensation, someone else to tell the world that Sherlock Holmes had invented all the crimes he'd solved.

They'd have to find someone else to soil the memory of the man who'd saved his life.

He hadn't always been of this opinion. When he'd first met Sherlock – in an arrest cell – he'd been convinced that this was the end. Why would the police allow someone who obviously wasn't in the force to interview him if they didn't think that he was guilty? They obviously thought they had enough proof so they could just let anyone speak with him.

Of course he hadn't killed the poor family – a couple and the husband's sister – whose murder he was supposed to have committed; he was a burglar, not a killer. He had been breaking into a house in a completely different part of town, but when he'd told the police – he was more than ready to go to jail for house-breaking, he had done it a few times before, and it was certainly better than being convicted for murder – his confession had had no impact whatsoever. No one seemed to believe him, though. The only one who did was DI Lestrade, who (as he'd learned later) called Sherlock because he thought Angelo might be innocent after all.

The only reason he'd been arrested at all was that he'd foolishly allowed himself to be caught with the nice watch of the husband that had been stolen during the murder – he should have known it had been way too cheap, but his old acquaintance had sworn that there was no "bad business" – meaning no business worse than theft or robbery – concerning the watch. He should have known better than to trust a man who sold stolen goods, but this had been his world ever since his father had kicked him out. He simply knew no other. True, there had been a dream, long ago; he'd always wanted to be a cook, and his mother, who'd died when he was thirteen, had taught him how to make pasta when he had been just six years old. But he'd made himself forget all these silly hopes. He had to do what he had to do to survive.

At least he'd thought so until he'd been arrested as a suspect in a murder case. Right there, in the cell and again in the interview room, he'd sworn to himself that he would turn his life around, no matter what. If he ever came out of here, that was. Most of the people here seemed to believe he was the killer; and what could one Di do? Or so he'd thought. He hadn't know at the time, naturally, what a DI could do if he had the help of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had strolled into the interview room in the same way he'd later stroll into his restaurant: confident, relaxed and eager to show the world how clever he was. He'd taken one look at him, frowned and turned around to face Lestrade, asking "Really?"

The DI had shifted his weight from one foot to another, as if slightly uncomfortable under Sherlock's gaze, but nonetheless stood his ground. "You care to elaborate?"

Sherlock had snorted. "Please. Based on the marks on his hands – marks that only tools of a certain trade leave, I might add – he was obviously busy house-breaking at the time of the murders."

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, I'm going to need more than that – details, evidence. You can't expect me to exonerate a man because you tell me he's committed another crime".

Sherlock had immediately turned around and walked over to Angelo.

"So?" He'd demanded. "Where was it? Which house did you break into? I know it was in a different part of town from the mud on your shoes".

He'd been taken aback. He'd almost given up hope he'd find anyone who'd believe him, and he'd certainly not expected that this – consulting detective as Lestrade had called him would be able to tell in which part of town he'd broken in.

He'd told Sherlock and the consulting detective had immediately rushed of; the DI had looked surprised, although he'd only later understood why.

Barely three hours later, he'd been told that he wasn't held for murder anymore, but for burglary, and he couldn't have been more relieved. When he'd asked why, the Sergeant who'd led him back into his cell had simply murmured something like "damn freak" and he'd decided not to demand more answers. He'd been sure it had been this – Sherlock that had rushed off, though. He'd only wished to thank the man who'd proved that he was innocent – of one crime, at least – but Sherlock hadn't shown up again.

He'd spent almost a year in prison; he had expected a longer sentence, but apparently someone – to this day he was sure it had been Lestrade, it couldn't have been anyone else, and the DI hadn't been very keen on prosecuting a burglar anyway – had put in a good word for him. After he'd served his time, he had left the prison without any money or friends, but determined that he would never go back.

And then, an old aunt of his he'd quite forgotten about had died and he, as her only remaining relative, had inherited enough money to make his dream come true. He'd made courses on how to run a business in prison, just because he'd never given up hope, and for once, he'd been right not to.

He'd found the right place and he'd opened his restaurant, more happy than he'd ever been in his entire life. He hadn't believed his eyes when, two weeks after the opening, Sherlock Holmes had strolled into his restaurant just as casually as he had in the interview room.

They had recognized each other instantly – and over time he had come to suspect that Sherlock hadn't accidentally walked into his restaurant. He'd offered him the best table and told him that everything was on the house. When Sherlock had seemed confused, he'd elaborated.

"You cleared my name. It's the least I can do".

Sherlock, while obviously confused that someone would actually give him credit, had answered, "I cleared it a bit".

He'd chuckled. "You cleared it enough for me." Then, because Sherlock hadn't answered and because he couldn't help himself, he'd asked, "What are you exactly, anyway?"

He'd replied matter-of-factly "I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the World" and continued to elaborate. Angelo had listened to every word.

Sherlock hadn't protested the free pasta after that and he'd shown up regularly. Angelo had even got him to eat, or rather pick at his food, as he'd insisted it was all "just transport". And, over time, he'd come to trust him enough to tell him about his cases.

He never brought anyone with him though and, paradoxically, this was Angelo's primary concern. The man hunted down murderers and had shown up with injuries once or twice, and his biggest wish was for him not to be alone anymore.

Because he could tell Sherlock was alone, had been for a long time. He'd spent enough time in prison, feeling lonely and being surrounded by equally lonely men, and he could read it in the consulting detective's eyes.

The day he'd shown up with John Watson he' been ecstatic. To this day, he wasn't sure if there hadn't been more than friendship between them for all of John's protestations.

After all –

After all he knew how John was taking Sherlock's suicide.

He would never believe that Sherlock Holmes had been a fraught. This man had saved his life; and he certainly hadn't "invented" the breaking and entering he'd committed. Maybe Sherlock had been right and most people were stupid; but how could anyone who had seen him – anyone who had heard of him and the things he'd done – think he'd lied? Sherlock had done so much good, even if he had never admitted it to himself –

Angelo had been to his funeral, of course. Without Sherlock he would be in jail for a murder he hadn't committed; without Sherlock his life wouldn't be worth living. He knew this. He knew this just as well as he knew how to cook pasta.

But this knowledge wouldn't change anything, no matter how many journalists he threw out his restaurant, no matter how many papers he tore to shreds because he could.

He could look after John Watson, though. He was the only thing he had left of Sherlock Holmes.

At first, he'd thought he would never see the doctor again. His restaurant had been John's and Sherlock's place; he couldn't remember how many times they had shown up after a case, happy, flushed, triumphant. He'd been convinced the memories would be too much for John.

Maybe they were; he'd never asked. But the fact was that John continued to show up, even after he had moved – which he'd only told him about only after a bottle of white wine – to sit at his and Sherlock's usual table.

He'd shown up for the first time three months after Sherlock's death. Angelo had looked at him and seen a broken man. He'd lost weight and there were dark rings under his eyes.

He could do nothing against the nightmares, but he could feed John Watson, and feed him he would, if it was the last thing he ever did.

They never talked about Sherlock's suicide. They never talked about anything concerning the consulting detective.

Well, they had mentioned him once. When John had shown up for the first time and wanted to pay.

He'd shaken his head.

"You were Sherlock's friend. It's on the house".

John had winced as if he had slapped him – and maybe he had, maybe he couldn't bear to hear his name – but put his wallet back in his pocket and left soon after.

Ever since then, he'd come in, eaten and left, barely saying more than ten words.

He hadn't thought tonight would be any different.

But just after he'd thrown the reporter out, John stood before him.

Angelo shrugged and smiled. "He was being annoying."

"Yes?"

"He wanted me to tell him that Sherlock was a fraud. As if I'd ever do that".

And just like that, he saw John Watson smile for the first time since Sherlock had jumped.

John talked a lot during this evening. He told Angelo all about the cases he and Sherlock had solved together, and he listened, even if he'd already read about him in the blog.

And, for once, he actually ate everything instead of just picking his food.

From this day on, he came more and more often until it was obvious Angelo was more or less sustaining him.

Not that he cared.

Sherlock had saved him, and John had saved Sherlock from loneliness. As far as Angelo was concerned, he was just repaying a favour and would continue to do so.

There were worse things than to invite the best friend of the wisest man he'd ever known to dinner almost every day of the week.

**Author's note: I hope this makes up for forgetting about Angelo... **

**Please review. **


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